I’m going to do this.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, loud against the quiet. I’m shocked I even get service out here. Hudson’s probably not gonna love that—no Wi-Fi. Another thing to figure out. I pull my phone out and take a quick glance at it.
Come to the Bluebell during the lunch hour tomorrow at 1. Hudson will be at practice. Go to the back office. We cantalk there.
—L
Short. Direct. No room for anything but what’s necessary.
I stare at it for a beat, then send back a thumbs-up emoji. That’s all I’ve got in me.
I tuck the phone away, walk back to Springsteen, and tighten the cinch. Climb into the saddle and turn him toward the house.
I don’t rush the ride. Just let the quiet stretch, let the rhythm settle into my chest.
By the time the house comes into view, the sky’s turning gold at the edges, and the smell of something buttery and rich rolls through the kitchen window.
Mom’s at the stove when I walk in, stirring something in the biggest damn pot she owns. She’s got a dozen of them, and even though it’s just the four of us now, she still cooks like the whole town might show up hungry.
Always has.
Back when we were kids, there was always someone extra at the table—some neighbor, some classmate who needed a place to be. Between her and Loretta, no one ever left this ranch without a full plate and a second helping.
She glances over her shoulder when she hears me, eyes dragging across my face like she’s trying to figure out what kind of day I’ve had.
“You down for dinner?”
“I will be,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. “Don’t wait on me. Got something to take care of first.”
She gives a small nod, turns back to the stove without asking for more. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about her—she never pushes. Just waits until you’re ready to talk.
I head upstairs, two steps at a time, toward the guest room I’ve been crashing in since I got back.
My old room’s long gone—Mom turned it into an office after I enlisted. Makes sense. Place doesn’t stay frozen in time just because you left it behind.
The guest room’s fine. Clean. Warm. Bed’s decent, sheets soft, water pressure strong enough to knock the knots loose from my shoulders. Nothing fancy, but it works.
I grab the journal from under the pillow. Leather’s worn smooth at the edges. I flip it open, thumbing through pages filled with words that’ll never leave this room. Letters I’ve never sent. Stuff I don’t say out loud.
Therapist said it might help—getting the thoughts out. Said PTSD has a way of making everything sharper than it needs to be, harder to sort through. Told me writing it down might untangle the mess.
I’m not sure I buy into that. Some things are just heavy.
But I do it anyway.
I click the pen. Let it hover for a second. Then press it to the page.
And start writing to the one person I wish like hell I could still talk to.
Jack,
I don’t know where to start, so I guess I’ll just say it.
I have a son.
I know. I’m freaking the fuck out and you’re probably laughing your ass off wherever you are, calling me ‘Daddy Boone’ in that stupid ass voice you always used when you were trying to get under my skin. But Jesus, Jack. He’s real. He’s twelve. And I missed it. All of it.
His name is Hudson. And he looks just like me. Like—exactly. It was like looking in a mirror, only instead of seeing some worn-out, busted-up version of myself, I saw him. A kid who has no idea who I am. A kid I should’ve known.
